


Held

by rispacooper



Series: Breathing [3]
Category: Psych
Genre: First Kiss, First Time, Humor, M/M, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-12
Updated: 2011-03-12
Packaged: 2017-10-16 21:30:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/169550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rispacooper/pseuds/rispacooper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel (but it's the last one I swear!) to Inhale and Exhale. Written for the psychflashfic. Same prompt: what are you wearing?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Held

Carlton leaned his head back against the wall, fought to breathe for one long, agonizing second. His mouth was open, he could breathe, he knew that. He needed to, if he wanted to stay alive, to keep feeling the amazing things he was feeling.

He sucked in air and tasted cologne on his tongue, the same cologne, _Spencer's_ cologne, on his skin, on Spencer's, rising in the heat between them.

He turned his head, made the mistake of looking at Spencer, who was watching him. If there were a word for the way he was studying Carlton, that word would have been _intense_. It was exactly the way Carlton had watched every move Spencer had made for the past few weeks. He pushed out a breath and stared back, though he was trembling, faintly, from the build up of tension that had carried them through the day, had made Spencer follow him without a word to his car, had brought Spencer in toward him the moment Carlton had closed the front door behind them.

Spencer was in his personal space, hadn't stepped into it that Carlton had seen, not exactly. But Carlton had arched an eyebrow when Spencer still hadn't managed even a _sound_ and then Spencer had been in front of him and Carlton had been leaning against the wall.

There were hands, Spencer's hands, hovering just over his waist for a moment, and Carlton hadn't expected that either, this hesitation from Spencer, as though the man wasn't sure what to do though that was ridiculous. But Carlton saw it, and waited, swallowing uncertainly for a moment, wondering if Spencer had changed his mind, if he was only taking this game to a different level after all, and then Spencer hands spread wide over Carlton's chest and held there.

It wasn't much, but Carlton wasn't sure he'd need much after weeks of pursuing Spencer and years of _this_ between them. It wasn't teasing and it wasn't playful or anything that could be dismissed as vision-related. It was Shawn Spencer touching him with the shy, eager hands of a virgin.

Carlton shook his head a fraction at the obviously ludicrous idea, but he still wasn't moving, wasn't doing anything but letting Spencer touch him. Touch him, and _savor_ the moment, _appreciating_ Carlton in a way Carlton didn't think he'd ever experienced.

Spencer's eyes went from sharp to unfocused in the second it took for the heat seeping through Carlton's shirt to reach his palms but his gaze stayed on Carlton's for a moment or two longer. Color bloomed in his face. Carlton put his hands down, left them at his sides before pressing them to the wall to keep himself from reaching out.

He wasn't sure why Spencer's quiet made him hold back, but his stare seemed to be enough anyway. Spencer finally made a sound that wasn't about a case, just a noise, almost a “whoa.”

“You're hard,” Spencer exhaled a moment later, as though honestly surprised. His mouth was open, there was warm breath hitting Carlton's throat. Carlton swallowed, tried to think of an answer that wasn't sarcastic, but Spencer spared him the effort, sweeping his eyes down and staring for so long that Carlton's fingers curled into his palms.

“Spencer.” He could wait. He could, and had, for a long time, but he wasn't going to take anymore teasing. Not in the bedroom—hallway.

Spencer's head came up, and then he moved back in, until his lips were at Carlton's ear. Carlton could hear him breathing, could feel the rapid movements of his chest as much as he could feel Spencer's hands beginning to slowly explore him over his shirt and Spencer's body, swaying slowly closer.

“Lass.” Spencer whispered at last, though Carlton didn't know if he was asking for something, or waiting again, until Spencer's breathing hitched and he lowered his hand without warning. His other hand crept over to the holster Carlton was still wearing, and clutched it tight right as fingertips grazed the outline of Carlton's erection through his pants. Carlton went tense and Spencer drew in a very, very long breath.

He let his hand linger, not that Carlton thought it had been accident, not this time, then spread his fingers out and made that sound again. “Whoa.”

“Lass...” he said one more time, as though Carlton hadn't stopped breathing completely, as though he weren't shuddering and raising his eyes to the ceiling to stare, pray, beg for more patience and restraint. “Lass,” he said, and then Spencer's voice dropped to a familiar, if husky, teasing tone. “...Seriously what are you _wearing_?”

 

Lassie smelled good, felt good too, and though Shawn's mind had still been a little worried about the whole “I'm gay and also very gay for Lassiter” thing before, it had shut off somewhere after the car ride back to Lassie's place and before the feel of Lassie _shaking_ when Shawn had—just barely—touched his dick. Through _clothes_ ; that wasn't even second base.

It felt like a lot more though. Felt nearly as good as that smell. Shawn hesitated, then shifted his head up to seek out that scent that had been driving him crazy since that morning. His thumb twitched, not the one over—In the Name of Joan Collins—Lassiter's dick, but his other thumb. It smoothed over the strip of leather, the holster, and there was no way Lassiter could know, but it was like Lassie knew everything now, because he groaned up at his ceiling. Again.

Shawn inhaled. Lassie smelled expensive and familiar and about as turned on as a man had ever smelled and yes, YES, Shawn's brain had noticed that before, but not like it was noticing it now. Lassie froze for that, but Shawn ducked his head, slid his body over to inhale at the other side of Lassiter's neck, not quite letting his mouth touch skin.

“What am I wearing?” There was a rumble when Lassiter spoke, a deeper rumble than Shawn was used to, but he wasn't protesting, so Shawn breathed in deep and then watched as his exhale made Lassiter shake some more.

Shawn was about to say, “That smell, that true and manly cologne you've got on that I can smell all _over_ you” but then Lassiter lowered his head and the rumble was against Shawn's ear.

“You,” Lassiter told him, and no, it didn't make sense, but Shawn's body thought it did. His hand curved around tighter, between cotton and leather, and pulled Lassiter forward by his holster.

Time did that stopping thing. Lassie didn't breathe. Shawn wasn't sure he did either.

His lips met skin, his body met Lassiter's, and Shawn's dick said “hello and marry me” to Lassie's dick.

Shawn's mouth came open—or it had been open, but there was no way he was closing it now. One of Lassiter's hands made it off the wall. All Lassie did was stroke down Shawn's back once, though Shawn didn't know why until Lassie turned his mouth away, and Shawn realized that panting he heard wasn't coming from Lassiter.

It should have been words, like, “Why did it take me so long to realize I wanted this?” and “Seriously, Lassie, what is that cologne? It's like angels collected drops of Billy Zane's essence into a bottle” and “I don't know what I'm doing, please touch me so we can have happy naked fun times”. But he was breathing hard, playing catch up in a totally new game and it wasn't fair.

He frowned, because no way was it cool that Lassie got to know more than him, and skimmed his palm over Lassie's junk—Lassie's junk, Lassie had _junk_ and Shawn liked it—a light circle. The resulting jerk made them both shiver. Lassie's voice did that rasping thing, that animal not-quite purr that meant _pleased_ and _this_ was what Lassie's stares for the past few weeks had meant he'd wanted. _This_...this...grown up seduction.

Shawn didn't know how Lassie had known that _he'd_ wanted it too, and he really ought to ask—and would, if there was a way to do that would not make him lose his cool or make him take his lips from Lassie's skin. Also he was kind of aware that he'd lost his ability to talk again, or at least that it was going to be hard—difficult! _Difficult_ —to make noises that were words and not the breathless, incoherent “...whoaLassiegoodwhoa...” that kept slipping out of him.

“You...” Lassie growled again, in his throat, under Shawn's mouth, and Shawn opened his lips wider, pulled expensive hints of sandalwood and a tang of something else into his lungs, held them there as the word sank in and made sense.

Lassie was wearing _him_. Shawn didn't even care if Lassie had meant Shawn was draped over him or that he was wearing the same scent that Shawn had “sampled” repeatedly at the mall for the past month.

Shawn was _on_ Lassiter. Shawn was all over Lassiter's skin. Shawn was under Lassiter's clothes. Had been all _day_. Shawn's brain liked that idea, even if it was just Shawn's scent and not the rest of him.

Not yet anyway. His brain and body and other things pounding away inside of him said “Go for it!” So did the way Lassiter wasn't moving, was barely breathing, like the rest was entirely up to Shawn.

Shawn didn't even hesitate, he moved his hand up a few inches, to the top of Lassie's fly, and when he stopped there, just for a moment, he let Lassie hear him panting.


End file.
